Thick As Thieves
by Juliette Louise
Summary: After the defeat of the Darkspawn, Lena and Zevran are settling into a comfortable routine in Orlais. Then Zevran receives an urgent message from the Antivan Crows--one that draws them back to the city of his birth for one last assignment...
1. Prologue

Lena's eyes creaked open.

Sun was filtering in from across the room, through lacy curtains. She flinched away from it like it was fire. Her head pounded, her mouth was dry. Her shoulders, jaw, and knees hurt considerably.

Looking down at herself, she realized that she was naked, and tangled up in silk sheets. The room she was in was scattered with armor, clothing, and undergarments, as well as a few empty ale tankards.

Holding her throbbing head, she turned over. Beside her was an enormous, dark-haired Antivan human. He had a neat goatee and fetching tattoos. He was sleeping peacefully with one arm thrown over her.

Then there was a noise. Someone groaned.

On the other side of the human, Zevran sat up slowly, also clutching his head. He was also completely unclothed, and a line of mouth-shaped bruises edged down his throat. His blonde hair stuck up strangely in places, and there were, curiously, bits of twigs and leaves stuck in it.

He groaned, looking down at the human blearily, then over to her. When his eyes fell on her, he smiled his wicked smile, one eyebrow arching. He cleared his throat.

"Ah. Welcome to Antiva, my dear." He said finally.


	2. Antiva City

After a bath she felt better.

Lena was learning more and more that Fereldeners had much less of an emphasis on bathing than the rest of the world, particularly the Antivans. Every inn and brothel had baths, and indeed, there were even separate institutions devoted entirely to the art of bathing, with huge communal pools and steam-rooms.

Her hair was still damp, but she smelled vaguely like Antivan scented oils and the ladies of the brothel had even insisted on cleaning her armor. She was cleaner and better smelling than she had been in weeks.

Zevran stretched luxuriously beside her, the bright sunlight of the early-afternoon catching on his hair and the hilts of his swords above his shoulders.

_"Shukran, mia signora."_ He said to the wizened elf-woman who was selling pasties at a gaudy booth. He turned and handed her one, and they continued walking along the docks.

He took one bite and made a decidedly happy noise.

"I told you, my darling. The food is better here. Fereldeners have no idea how to use spice properly." He said, again using her native tongue.

Lena was working on her Antivan, but the language had sounds and articles of speech that she had never heard in any other tongue, and it was giving her considerable difficulty. During last night's attempts at communication, she'd accidentally propositioned an elderly innkeeper (in an effort to buy a room for the night) and complimented Zevran's fishing-rod (when she'd meant to comment on the chowder he was eating)--much to her companion's amusement in both instances.

"Try it!" He said, nudging her with an elbow and breaking her out of her reverie.

These little meat pies were apparently the staple-food of the Antivan working man, and they were sold at little booths and out of carts on every street corner in this district. It was mild by Antivan standards, and the meat was very tender, covered in a flaky crust. She could see why it was a principal dish here.

Zevran sighed contentedly, finishing breakfast and licking his fingers. Lena too was beginning to feel much more like herself now that he stomach had something to anchor it down. Their first night in the country had been very exciting, but it had led to a pretty rough first morning.

The sun seemed to be brighter and hotter here, but there was a cool breeze coming off of the sea. The air smelled like saltwater and cooking and and the sickly-sweet odor of lye and leather-making. Skinny dogs darted around, and seagulls swooped down into the crowd to snatch up bits of dropped food. Along the boulevard, merchants and dockworkers and shoppers ambled, dressed in bright, flowing garments. Elves and humans mingled freely and unconcernedly, something that surprised her no matter how many times she saw it. Men selling weapons and armor and women with fresh seafood and bright silk shouted in rapid Antivan over the crowd, drawing in ambling shoppers with armloads of purchases.

From the little she could see over the buildings that lined the docks, the city seemed to literally go on forever. Denerim was the capital city of Ferelden, but you could still walk from one end of it to the other in an afternoon. It probably took _days_ to traverse the whole of Antiva City on foot.

"I can see why you missed this place." Lena said wonderingly, surveying the bustle of the city on one side, then the calm, endless sea on the other.

"I knew you would love it. Just, ah, keep a close watch on your purse-strings and your cleavage, we Antivans are a mixed lot."

"So I've noticed!" Lena declared, bumping him with a hip. "Was it you that picked out that poor, vulnerable man we did such terrible things to?"

He threw his head back and laughed. "No, my dear, it was decidedly you that acquired him, somehow, with only a dozen words of Antivan and your winning smile! And where the terrible things are concerned, I think he probably should have paid _us_."

She smirked. "So that was it? One last 'hurrah' before we present ourselves to the House of Crows?"

Zevran sighed, his expression sobering slightly. "Yes. We should go to them immediately. They will know that we are here within the day anyway--they have eyes and ears everywhere in this city."

They'd gotten the letter weeks ago, nailed to their door at an inn in Val Royeaux. It was thick parchment, sealed with the bloody emblem of the House of Crows in scarlet wax. Zevran had read it to himself than sat quietly for a long moment, until she thought she'd lose her mind from curiosity and no small amount of uneasiness.

At last he read it aloud to her (since Lena could not read or write in Ferel, let alone Antivan).

It congratulated Zevran and "the Lady Tabris" for defeating Taliesin and his fellow assassins, as well as for pushing back the Darkspawn Horde. It guaranteed them safe passage through Antiva City in exchange for Zevran's help. Apparently an urgent matter was at hand, one concerning the future of the Crows, and therefore the entire delicately-balanced political hierarchy of Antiva. The letter did not elaborate on the apparent problem, but did remind Zevran that if he ever wanted to see his homeland again without threat of horrible death, he would have to make peace with the House of Crows.

They stayed up until the candles burned low, talking over their options. They could leave Orlais, maybe go north to the land of the Qun, or even back to King Alistair and Ferelden, but the idea wasn't appealing. Both of them preferred cities to the more provincial realms, and in any case, they had little interest in running. Since the Crows were apparently capable of finding them wherever they traveled, it was probably best to simply face them and see what their proposition was.

Two weeks later they were here by way of a Ferelden vessel, all the belongings they had in the world in the packs they carried with them.

Zevran was in much better spirits that she'd assumed he would be, since they were, after all, marching off to present themselves to the most elite group of assassins in Thedas, who had tried extensively to murder them in the past.

They wound through narrow cobbled streets, Zevran pointing and remarking on this and that—shops he visited as a Crow trainee, places he'd got into various misadventures.

Stray cats and even the occasional wandering chicken crossed their path. Dark-complected human children chased after each other, shouting, and tanned, buxom matrons hung laundry and emptied chamberpots into the sewers. No one seemed overly concerned with them, which was a strange feeling for Lena. In Ferelden, of course, the sight of well-armored and outfitted elves was enough to cause a minor uproar, and in Orlais they were naturally suspicious of any foreigners-- and Lena and Zevran were obviously foreigners. Several times, she noticed people's eyes flickering briefly over Zevran, then looking away quickly. They knew he was a Crow somehow, it seemed—and were giving them a very wide berth as a result.

At last the residential district's thin, winding streets opened up into an enormous square, in the center of which was a towering sculpture of Thirina, the murdered Antivan queen who gave the Steel Age its name. She looked skyward with her hands clasped in prayer, propitiating the Maker, while impaled with four slim daggers. At her feet, representations of her subjects shielded their eyes, weeping. Around the huge stone sculpture was a round pool of water, in which a few children played, unperturbed by the disturbing scene above them.

"Oh my." Lena said, her mouth falling open.

Zevran snorted. "I always thought it was a tad obvious, myself. But as I have said, Antiva has a...unique view on assassination. It's practically the national past time. Beyond, of course, is the Enclave of the House of Crows."

He pointed past the square to an colossal stone building that looked rather like Chantries usually did in Ferelden, unremarkable except for magnificent swaths of fabric in the colors of Antiva that fluttered from its parapets.

Zevran sighed, and when she turned to him she saw that his jaw was set in a hard line, his eyes narrowed.

"Needless to say, I never thought I'd see the Enclave again. It seems the Crows continue to have power over me, despite my best efforts." He turned to look at her.

"It's not too late to catch a ship back to Ferelden, my dear Lena. I won't even hold it against you in future, if I live." He said, with uncharacteristic earnestness.

She leaned over and laid a kiss behind his ear.

"Please, Zevran. I've killed a god. There are very few things I am afraid of." Lena said, smirking.

Zevran knew it was bravado, of course, but didn't speak of it. He only shrugged and smiled, a bit of his old manner reasserting itself. He offered his arm in a gallant fashion.

"Very true, my dear lady. That being the case, allow me to introduce you to the assassins of the House of Crows."


	3. The House of Crows

_"Complicido per incontrata, chi ama Lena Tabris."_ She muttered, practicing. It meant, "Pleased to meet you, I am Lena Tabris", hopefully.

_"...incontrrrrata." _Zevran corrected, rolling the "r" in the word exaggeratedly. Neither of the two languages she spoke involved trilled "r" sounds. Zevran sounded exotic and sexy when he did it, she sounded like she'd recently been punched in the mouth.

They were walking across Thirina square, dodging running children and groups of fluttering pigeons.

_"...incontr—contrata. _Damn." She said.

"Don't worry, my dear. A talented tongue like yours will soon learn." Zevran said blithely.

"You have a truly filthy mind, Zevran Arainai."

_"Grazia multia, il mia amora." _He said, bowing.

Much too soon, they stood on the threshold of the Enclave of the House of Crows. Ebony double-doors were before them, free of any insignia or even door-knockers. To her surprise, Zevran simply took a deep breath and pushed them open.

They entered a cavernous, darkened hall. A blood-red carpet ran the length of the room and colorful tapestries hung from the walls, but aside from that, the hall was empty--silent. She knew that Zevran was surprised from the tilt of one eyebrow and a sidelong glance, but his body language betrayed no uncertainty.

Lena didn't know what they were walking towards, since the hall was totally empty, but she walked by his side regardless, trying to project self-assurance.

Abruptly, someone was on the other side of her. She resisted the urge to jump.

_"Dagli dei! Ce bella signoria mia!" _A deep voice rumbled. She looked up and to her right to see an older human, with long dark hair and a close-cropped beard. He was dressed simply but well, in dark jewel-tones and a long cloak. He caught her hand gently and brought it to his lips, dark eyes twinkling.

"The Lady Tabris, I presume?" He said in heavily-accented Ferel.

_"Ciao, Maestro _Signi." Zevran's said dryly as he stepped out from behind her.

Signi clicked his tongue on his teeth. "Please, Zevran. In Ferel for our guest. It's very impolite to converse in a language that not all present are fluent in."

Zevran rolled his eyes. 

"Though from what I understand you are learning quickly, yes? I'm sure our tongue suits your dark beauty, my Lady. If I didn't know otherwise, I would assume that with such raven hair and chestnut eyes, you were an Antivan by birth." He continued.

Lena knew what he was doing, of course, but couldn't help but be dragged along by it. Intense and convincing flattery seemed to be a particular skill-set of the Crows, or maybe all Antivans, for all she knew.

"Signi. I know you did not drag me all the way to Antiva so that you could practice your charm." Zevran said flatly, his arms crossed.

Master Signi sighed dramatically. "You always were so driven, Zevran. Never stopping to appreciate the beauty and pleasure in life."

Lena knew that Zevran spent a great deal of time appreciating beauty _and_ pleasure, but didn't voice this opinion. She had the feeling that the standards of an elf from the Denerim alienage and a Master Crow were quite dissimilar.

"But yes, you are correct. I brought you here for a very important matter. Come to my office and I will explain." Signi said. He hadn't yet let go of her hand. He held it in one of his, and stroked her knuckles with the other.

"Such strong hands, Lena. May I call you Lena?" He said as they walked.

"Ah, yes. Of—of course." She stuttered, much to her discomfiture. His relentless charm was throwing her off-guard. Why was she letting it throw her off-guard?

"How an impudent rogue such as our Zevran here managed to win your favor, I'll never know. But that's life, yes? Ever strange and inexplicable."

They reached a door, and Signi at last released her hand to open it and beckon them inside. His office was very well-appointed, with plush, high-backed chairs and shelves with more books than she'd ever seen in one place before.

"Make yourself at home, please." He said, sweeping off his cloak and sitting. Lena slid into one of the soft seats across from him. Zevran didn't move.

"Just talk, Master Signi. I'm growing older by the moment, here."

Again, Signi sighed, leaning forward and resting his elbows atop his knees, his hands clasped.

"There has been a schism in the house of Crows, Zevran. You remember Master Zirian, yes?"

"Of course."

"A few weeks ago, he and I had a protracted disagreement. I believed that he would leave the Crows forever. What I didn't realize was that he would take half of our assassins with him."

"Make yourself plain, Signi. If you can."

"We are in civil war, Zevran. The House of Crows has been split down the middle, with half supporting Master Zirian and the others supporting myself. The traitors are calling themselves 'the Thieves', since they intend to steal Kingship from myself and give it to Zirian. Audacious, yes?"

Zevran shifted on his feet, one hip jutting, arms still crossed.

"And what does this have to do with me, exactly?"

"My dear Zevran. Your interest in this matter should be obvious: I _like_ you, and Zirian wants you dead. I assume you would prefer I remain on the throne, as it were?"

"If you like me so very much, where were you when Taliesin was hunting me all across Ferelden?"

"Taliesin was under orders from Zirian, of course. I knew nothing of it. Apparently, he still holds a grudge concerning the business with Rinna. She was a favorite of his, I'm told. And now that you've killed Taliesin...well, he's even _less_ pleased with you."

"Fine. I am convinced." Zevran said, his voice cold. Rinna was still an open wound. "But what would you have me do? Surely you don't think I can assassinate half of the Crows—especially considering that they all know me on sight."

Signi sat back into his chair, smiling.

"They don't know the Lady Tabris." He said.

"You are so quick to pull Lena into this disaster, Signi? She's not even a Crow." Zevran said, real anger edging into his voice.

Signi waved dismissively.

"Oh, be calm Zevran. I am only making conversation. I will contact you in a few days. In the meantime..." He said, standing and sweeping them both up and towards the door. "...Relax, enjoy everything our fair city has to offer. May I suggest the Nevai Playhouse? They are doing a moving production of the life of Andraste."

The door clicked behind them, and they were alone again in the empty Enclave.

-

"I expected that the news would be bad. But this isn't simply bad: it's catastrophic." Zevran said. Beside him, Lena was surveying the square, watching every darting child and ambling washer-woman with suspicion. But when she turned back to him, her dark eyes were full of mirth.

"_That_ was the King of the House of Crows?" She said.

Zevran sighed. "Yes. Torvesti Signi is both eccentric and charming, but do not be fooled. He's killed more people than I've ever _met_. And I've met a lot of people."

Zevran knew it was all business, but Signi's seduction routine had still made his hackles rise. Lena was no wide-eyed peasant girl, but it was difficult not to be swept up in the flattery when someone so skilled was laying it on so thick. And Zevran wasn't normally the jealous sort, but he knew that falling for Signi's routine usually ended with your body falling into the sewer.

And that was precisely the point—Signi made him upset before the meeting even began, and as a result, had negotiated from a position of strength.

"So what now?" Lena said. "Do we just wait around for the Thieves to murder us?"

"Yes." He said. "Regrettably, that seems to be the plan, at least for the moment."

Zevran was deeply unhappy. He hadn't counted on Lena being dragged into whatever business the Crows had summoned him here for.

It hadn't been so long ago that she'd been grievously wounded fighting the Archdemon at the helm of the Blight. In fact, only Wynne's potions and his timely application of a seldom-used technique had forced her heart to start beating again after the beast punched a line of holes in her torso the size of fists.

He took her to Orlais then, feeling that the awful rainy climate of Ferelden would do her no favors. She'd been so pale and weak--so different from the proud warrior who'd once stood over him on the road outside Denerim and unexpectedly spared his life. Caring for her in that vulnerability had aroused in him a protective instinct he hadn't realized he possessed.

Lena had only just recovered to his satisfaction—deep wounds turning to shiny white snarls of scar-tissue that trailed down her mended ribs and onto her stomach—when the letter had arrived. He didn't relish the thought of her being targeted by the Crows, despite her recent assertions that she had never felt better. The memory of carrying her broken body down the stairs of Fort Drakon was too new and vibrant in his mind.

She caught his hand in hers, startling him out of his morose thoughts.

"So show me around, Zevran. I want to see everything. Except for the play about Andraste—that actually sounds quite awful." Lena said, practically buzzing with excitement.

Her enthusiasm was contagious; he couldn't help but smile.

"The Thieves" would come for them sooner or later, of course, but Zevran was in the habit of enjoying every moment he spent without someone's knife against his throat.

"Everything, eh? Fine. We'll start with the royal palace. I can even show you the window I once fell out of during an attempt to assassinate the old Queen. I'd just killed ten or eleven of her guards when one lucky bastard pushed me..."


	4. The Royal Messenger

The day dawned cold and grey and miserable.

Alistair threw on a cloak and went outside to his balcony, overlooking the choppy sea. The sun hadn't yet risen to burn off the ever-present layer of fog. It was spring in this part of Ferelden, and although the last of the snow was gone, it was hardly pleasant to be outside yet.

Someone knocked on his door.

"Tea, your Highness." Althea's muffled voice came from the other side.

"Come in, Althea." He called.

Alistair drug his eyes away from the foggy horizon and over to his maidservant. She was tiny and blonde, elven, carrying an gilded tray with a complete tea-service on it. She sat it down on his desk, wiped her hands on her apron, and flashed him a smile.

"Up so early, Highness?" She said, fussing over the tea.

He'd finally gotten his entourage to stop with the incessant bowing and curtsying and eye-averting, but he couldn't for the life of him persuade people to call him by his name.

"Yes. I've got a guest coming. Someone I actually _want_ to see, for once." He said, accepting a steaming cup that warmed his cold hands.

"I believe the ship usually arrives at dawn, my Liege. I don't think you'll have much longer to wait." She said, and instinctively tried to drop into a curtsy before stopping herself.

Alistair smiled to himself.

"Thank you, Althea. I'll call you again when she arrives--breakfast for two, please?"

Althea lost the battle with herself and made a deep curtsy before backing out of the room.

"Of course, your Highness."

-

Althea was right of course, since she'd spent her whole young life by these docks. The ship from Orlais docked just as the sun was rising over the sea. It was the same vessel Lena and Zevran had arrived by a few weeks ago on their way to Antiva.

Alistair resisted the urge run down the stairs and out to the docks and meet her—he was King, after all, and regrettably had to display some level of decorum.

Leliana was in the grand hall when he arrived, surrounded by bounding mabari and squealing in delight. She was wearing a long scarlet gown and cloak that matched the red of her hair, and her pale cheeks were pink from sun. She looked up when he approached.

"Alistair!" She cried, throwing herself into his arms.

If any of his advisors had been there, they would have been horrified by this perceived lack of protocol. But he was King, dammit, and if pretty women wanted to hug him occasionally they should be allowed to.

"Leliana!" He laughed. "You look fantastic!"

"And you!" She responded. "You look so...regal! With your red velvet and..." She wiped hurriedly at tears. "...It's so nice to see you."

"Oh, 'Liana." He said, squeezing her shoulder. She cried a lot. It was part of her charm.

"Come to my chambers and have breakfast. I want to talk to you about something."

-

"...Then Zevran comes up to me and says something like, 'I see ruling has done good things for your figure!' and _pats me on the stomach, _making these cooing noises. I thought everyone in the hall was going to faint. Really. There's this tattooed elf rubbing my belly like I'm a pregnant horse and talking about how the King of Ferelden has put on weight."

Leliana clapped her hands together, giggling so furiously she had tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Never one to stand on ritual and decorum, Zevran." She said finally, when she'd regained control of herself. "And how was Lena?"

"Actually, she looked wonderful. Better than I've ever seen her. I think that was the point to the visit--he wanted to prove that he'd taken good care of her. Anyway, then they said they were going to Antiva, but wouldn't say why."

"Antiva?" Leliana said, stirring her tea thoughtfully. "I thought Zevran could never go back."

Alistair sat back, crossing his arms and nodding. "Right. The whole time we were on the road together, it was 'Oh, I miss this and that and fish chowder and leather boots, but I can never go back or the Crows will kill me', then suddenly all is well and they're on a ship to Antiva City. Furthermore, I've been hearing reports about serious political unrest there. And you'll never guess who's involved."

"The House of Crows?" She said, smirking.

"Of course."

"Hmm." She said thoughtfully.

"I never thought I'd hear myself saying this, but I trust Zevran. It's the rest of Antiva I'm not sure about."

"You want me to go find them, and see what's going on?"

"Would you?" He said. "I can't really move around in anonymity like I used to."

She clapped her hands together happily.

"Another grand adventure! And I've never been to Antiva! I'll leave at once." She said, springing out of her chair.

-

"Zevran. Please." She said. No response. She gasped and shuddered, trying vaguely to crawl away, but his hand clamped down on her thigh and he kept going.

"Zevran!" She squeaked.

"...Antivan." He reminded, stopping only long enough to give her an amused look from between her legs.

"Mmph. You bast—oh! Zevran! Stop that and get up here!" She said, her mind finding the Antivan words at last.

Zevran made a disappointed noise and crawled up her torso, his hand trailing along one hip then her ribs, before settling on a breast.

"How sad." He murmured into her neck in between kisses, also in Antivan. "I thought maybe you'd forget."

They'd been working hard at patching the holes in the language. His recent insistence that she be fully immersed in her learning apparently extended even to moments like this.

"Sorry to disappoint." Lena said, content for once to just lay back and let Zevran work his magic. There were times when it was worthwhile to wrangle him into submission, and others when it was more rewarding to just let him have his way. For the most part.

"If you don't want me to kiss you, what _do_ you want?" He said wickedly, balancing his weight on his elbow and combing his other hand through her hair.

"Don't be coy." She said, sliding her hand down to pull him inside.

Zevran's strange honey-colored eyes slid closed, and the breath came out of him slowly.

"I wouldn't think of it." He said.

He moved against her once, very slowly...then stopped. His lips froze against hers.

Lena knew what that meant.

He somehow extricated himself, sliding naked as the day he'd been born onto the floor, where his swords were currently lying. Lena stood and crossed the floor nimbly, picking up her own weapons.

It could be a serving girl, she thought. Or some drunken guest at the inn, headed for the wrong room in his inebriation.

But probably not.

Lena flattened herself against the wall just as someone kicked the door in.

The first one to appear was an enormous Qunari who Zevran jumped on the moment he crossed the threshold. The second was a dark-haired human who was so surprised by the naked elf with a hard-on assaulting his friend that he left himself open to her attack.

Zevran had just gotten himself somehow onto the big Qunari's back and slit his throat when the third and fourth mercenaries appeared. They stumbled a bit on the bodies of their friends, enough so that they could lay them both out in short order. As usual, this was when the Crow appeared.

"Zevran Arainai..." She said, her tongue sliding over his name.

To Lena's surprise, the Crow was a petite, auburn-haired human woman in leather armor and a voluminous black cloak. She stepped over the mercenaries lodged in the doorway daintily and stood before them.

"...Still doing what you do best, I see." She finished, her voice light and tinged with an Orlaisian accent, smirking at particular parts of Zevran's nudity.

"And Armali Corsaire. Still doing what _you _do best...persuading other people to take your lumps for you."

The smirk melted off her face.

"I don't know what that old fuck Signi wants with you and _la femme du joir_, but he's not going to get it."

Perhaps she was overconfident in her own abilities. Or perhaps she just hadn't counted on how much time Lena and Zevran had spent killing assassins together.

Lena went high, using a reverse-grip on her dagger and sweeping in with her sword, while Zevran stayed low, sliding in to cut her hamstrings with his Crow blade.

Surprise registered on Corsaire's face for a bare instant as she threw Lena off. Simultaneously, she lashed out at Zevran's face with one booted heel, but he pivoted out of the way, catching her around the knees. She shrieked, looking down and throwing out her hands to steady herself, for just long enough for Lena to behead her.

(Lena was discovering that most assassins were not terribly effective combatants without the element of surprise, and she was difficult to sneak up on. That was one of the things that made Zevran so extraordinary—he could kill you just as effectively in a straight-up fight as he could with poison or a garrote.)

"Ugh." Zevran said, climbing out from underneath Corsaire's body, covered in gore.

"I'll admit it: I enjoyed that." Lena panted, looking around for somewhere to clean her blade.

"Mmm. I see that." Zevran said, inspecting her briefly before wiping the blood off of his chest with the dead assassin's cloak.

"I don't suppose we'll be welcome at this inn for much longer..." She said, pulling on her leggings and undershirt, then rolling a dead mercenary off of her armor.

"No, I don't think so." Zevran said, hopping on one foot as he put a boot on the other.

"Where do we go now?" Lena said, locating his other boot and tossing it to him.

"I'll know it when we get there." He said, flashing her a grin.

Despite the obvious danger, a thrill went through her. Chasing around a new city with Zevran was exciting, even if they did have a cadre of trained killers after them.

"...Wherever it is, I plan on finishing what we started, my dear." He said, buckling on his sword-belts and giving her a wanton grin.

"Maybe. If you can catch me." She said playfully, and slipped out the window, Zevran hot on her heels.


	5. The Maker's Chosen

The sun woke her, as it always did. She'd spent so long living outdoors during the Blight that it was still difficult to sleep through the sunrise. Lena sat up on her elbows, blinking into the light.

They were camped out in a Chantry—it was the middle of the week and the building would still be empty for a few days.

Antivans had a completely different view on Chantries than Fereldeners, that was certain. This Chantry had three stories and huge stained-glass windows with scenes from Andraste's life—singing to the Maker with golden hair flowing to her knees, freeing the elves and building an army, then slicing off her long locks with her sword (as Lena had once done) and going to war, and of course her inevitable death. The outside of the building was covered in gutters that led into huge stone gargoyles, so that when the impressive rainstorms of the wet season covered Antiva, the water would run out their open mouths. Over all, it would be considered quite ostentatious, and maybe even a little disrespectful in Ferelden, but by Antiva City's standards the decor was quite sedate.

Lena stood, stretching, then crawled out an open window and out onto a wide ledge that ran the length of the building.

Zevran was perched, overlooking the waking city, one leg dangling over the edge, one arm looped around a huge granite gargoyle shaped like a snarling mabari hound.

"Found a new friend, have you?" She said.

Zevran was not surprised. Zevran was never surprised, even when people appeared out of nowhere in the still dawn three stories up.

"Oh yes." He said, patting the granite wardog's brow. "We were discussing his problems at length. The female wardog statue across the way finds him unpleasant and won't give him any stone puppies."

Lena snorted and sat beside him, watching a shopkeeper across the street sweep the stoop of her store. He snaked an arm around her waist, laying a kiss where her neck and shoulder met. She and Zevran had begun sleeping together within a few weeks of meeting, but hand-holding and casual embraces were a more recent development—arriving the night before her near-fatal encounter with the Archdemon. A year later, Lena was still stirred every time he brushed the hair out of her face or played with her hands vacantly from across a table.

"Did you sleep well? I don't think choir-lofts were designed for sleeping, or indeed naughty interludes...then again, our saucy friend Leliana was once a lay-sister in the Chantry, so..."

Lena snorted, cool wind from the sea rustling her hair. From this vantage point, she could almost see the ocean: a grey line on the horizon, on the other side of Antiva City. Gulls circled and dove, calling to each other and squabbling noisily in mid-air.

"I slept well enough. What are you worried about?"

Zevran sighed. "So perceptive. You should have been a spy, my dear. I am thinking about something the recently-deceased Miss Corsaire said."

"Oh?"

"She said...that Signi wanted something from me."

Lena was confused. "Of course he does. He sent for you all the way from Orlais."

Zevran drummed his fingers on the gargoyle's brow.

"Ah, but if he'd recalled all the Crows who were abroad, as I had assumed, why would she remark on Signi's interest in me specifically? Being the deeply paranoid individual that I am, I also assumed that Signi was lying about something, but now I'm unsure what."

"I think it's safe to assume that the civil war is real."

Zevran actually shivered.

"Oh yes. The Enclave was completely empty. That means all the Crows are in the field at once. I remember the last time this happened. It was a complete...ah, what was that uncouth Ferelden expression? A 'clusterfuck'. Right."

Lena put her face in her hands.

"That sounds so much more obscene in Antivan!" She laughed.

"Most things do!" He said, looking over at her amusedly.

"But please..." She said, regaining control of herself. "Tell me what happened."

Zevran's amber eyes scanned the horizon like he was looking back into the past. He pulled her in more firmly against his side.

"I was...oh, twenty-two? Twenty-three? One of the most powerful houses in Antiva City had been squabbling with a rival house for centuries. Finally, they acquired enough money and power to hire out the entire House of Crows to assassinate the rival family down to the man. And families are large here, so that was about two-hundred marks.

An _enormous_ sum of money changed hands, and every Crow who'd passed initiation was in the field simultaneously, myself included.

For the first few days, the Crows were practically tripping over each other to take down marks before they could realize what had happened and flee the city. It was chaos. And of course, being the morally vacuous people that the Crows are, we took this opportunity to kill each other left and right as well, in the hopes of climbing the political ladder back at the Enclave.

I killed four marks and nine fellow Crows in three days, which doesn't leave much time left over for sleeping or eating, let me tell you. By the time it was all over, half the Crows were dead and the rest of us were very wealthy for a time.

But the point of the story is, this will not be a war in the traditional sense. Until this is over and a King is decided upon, it's every man for himself. And there are around fifty initiated Crows, so...we have quite a few enemies."

"When will Signi contact us?" She asked.

Zevran snorted. "Damned if I know. I'm not sure what he has up his sleeve but I feel certain that I'm not going to like it."

"What do we do?" Lena said, searching his face. It was not usual for Zevran to be unsure of anything.

When he turned to look at her, he was smiling that same devilish smile that had first drawn her inexplicably to him.

"I won't sit and wait for the Crows to come to me, my dear." Zevran cracked his knuckles, eyes narrowing.

"We find out who the Thieves are, then we hunt."

-

The Antivan passenger schooner was not precisely pleasant, but it was far from the worst ship she'd ever been on. It was crowded, true, and Leliana _did _see a few rats scuttling around, but her fellow passengers were mostly pleasant (if a tad pungent in some cases). She even managed to negotiate, with some persuasion--and the King's money--for her own private quarters.

The schooner, which was puzzlingly titled "The Handsome One" in Antivan, departed at dusk and started out over the sea for faraway lands.

Leliana dropped her bags on the ground and locked the door to her quarters. She surveyed the room. It was tiny and lived-in, but serviceable. There was a bed with woolen covers and a desk, on which one battered oil-lamp sat.

She changed out of her new armor (made hurriedly at Alistair's request by his official armorer) and into a nightdress, but tucked a dagger into the bed beside her—it never paid to be _too_ comfortable.

Leliana blew out the lamp and settled into bed, concentrating on the gentle rocking of the ship and the lapping of the sea at its hull. She found it difficult to sleep alone, after so long with the Wardens, when there was always someone awake and watchful, and usually Lena's huge dog laying across the threshold to her tent.

The last year had been lonely after so long in the company of friends. After Alistair's coronation she traveled back across Ferelden, singing her ballad of the Wardens' victory to enraptured audiences until she reached the Temple of the Sacred Ashes.

Leliana bought supplies at Haven and went on alone, needing to make the long trek through the ruined temple and endless dark caverns: back to Andraste's remains. Her companions had been respectful to her feelings when they'd been here together, but they were not believers: they didn't feel the stirrings of the Maker in this place the way she did.

Leliana fought her way through the labyrinthine halls alone, building tiny smoky fires from damp wood and sleeping intermittently, days blending together in the endless darkness.

When at last she approached the Urn, she was again overwhelmed with emotion. Before her, in a nondescript clay pot, were the mortal remains of a woman who was so loved by the Maker that he allowed her to change the world.

Leliana sat for a long time in silence before the statue of Andraste, mumbling prayers, the tears running down her cheeks and freezing on the stone cobbles. The hall around her was silent, only the wind howling through cracks in the facade interrupted her thoughts. _Maman_ was gone, Lady Cecile was gone, Marjolaine was gone, her companions had all gone their separate ways—onto new adventures without her.

Sleep was edging in around her, and in her thoughts she saw all of them. The hazy, half-remembered _maman_—plump, freckled, kind, red-hair cascading down her back in loose curls that floated around her as she danced. Lady Cecile—thin, poised, her arthritic fingers covered in jeweled rings, laughing and singing along with her own clumsy first attempts at song. Marjolaine—her lips warm and soft against her cheek, her fingers in her hair, whispering promises she would never fulfill.

Leliana had just changed the world. So why didn't she feel like anything was different?


	6. Of Women and the Sea

Three days had passed since their encounter with Corsaire when the message arrived.

Zevran could feel his body setting into the familiar rhythm of the hunt. He ate little and slept even less, alert but pacing himself. This was unlike anything he'd ever undertaken before, and he knew it was important not to jangle his nerves before the killing even started.

So they travelled often, sleeping in shifts and cat-naps, but they also saw the sights.

Though the reason for their visit was somewhat unpleasant, Zevran found himself delighted to be a tour-guide, and Lena seemed enamoured of his fair city. Even it was crawling with assassins and covered in pigeon shit.

They had managed to flatter and insinuate their way into the good graces of some student ballet dancers at the Nevai Playhouse (with a smirk and a raised eyebrow and_ just_ the right touch on the small of the back—not to mention Lena's utterly _devastating _charms and generous cleavage).

And so it was that Zevran found himself in rather unfamiliar garments in a private box, overlooking the wealthier denizens of the city as they watched _Le Triomph de Andraste_.

"They would put on an Orlesian opera just as I've mastered Antivan." Lena said, leaning back in her chair to whisper in his ear. She had "borrowed" some clothing out of the Opera's store of costumes—a velvet seafoam-colored gown than highlighted the generous cleavage he'd just been considering and complimented her pale skin. To the best of his knowledge, Lena had spent most of her life in varying degrees of armor, but she still wore fine gowns like she'd been born into nobility. She really had missed her calling as a spy.

"Luckily, it's rather a well-worn story. I can't wait to see how they manage the 'burned at the stake' scene at the climax of the tale." Zevran said dryly.

"I'm sure fluttering orange cheesecloth will be involved." She said.

They jested, but the playhouse really was quite impressive. It was probably twice the size of Alistair's castle, and held three times more people. The walls were white, the ceilings painted with reliefs of gracefully dancing women in various states of undress. The stage was expansive, well-polished orangewood, lit with flickering oil lamps, framed by red velvet curtains.

Best of all, the height of their box provided him with a perfect opportunity to observe without being seen. When there was danger, Zevran could often see it in the movements of a crowd, even if those individuals were unaware of it themselves. A certain rippling, whispers, visible unease. Even among humans, who were thought to be more divorced from their instinct than his people.

At that particular moment, "Andraste" (wearing considerably less than was reasonable in Ferelden, he knew from experience) hit a rather painful high note and distracted him from his ruminations.

Lena winced.

"Maybe we should go back to our room, Zevran darling." She murmured in his ear. He shivered, feeling his lips curling into a smile, totally unbidden. Many people had called him "darling" in his life, but he believed that Lena was the only one of them who'd meant it.

"Does high society not suit the Lady Tabris after all?" He teased.

She shrugged, rearranging her skirts around her ankles daintily.

"Evidently not. But I'm still keeping the dress." Lena said, standing.

He followed, offering his arm, still firmly in the role of the gentleman. She accepted it the prescribed manner. But when he opened the door to the hallway, all the color ran out of her face.

There, nailed to the door at roughly eye-level, was a letter. Just like the one that had arrived, addressed only to Zevran Arainai, at their room in Orlais.

With a muttered curse he tore it down, opening it hurriedly. What he saw surprised him.

"Maker, Zevran. What does it say?" Lena said, bosom heaving.

Eyes narrowed, he smiled a predator's smile.

"It's a list." He said. "Twenty-four names. The Thieves, I assume. Signi came through after all."

She looked like she was considering asking how exactly it was that Signi knew of their plans, but then decided against it. He was King of the Antivan Crows, after all, and he knew every word spoken in this city.

Zevran tucked the letter into his belt. He gave Lena his arm again.

"Let's go to the roof. It's too lovely a night to be inside, and now there are plans to be made."

-

The gentle sea and the endless sky were reason enough to sit on deck, legs dangling, bare feet occasionally sprayed with seawater from the ship's wake, but the sun wasn't doing Leliana's complexion any favors.

She almost yelped when she saw her reflection in the surface of her wash basin. Her cheeks and cleavage was burning red, and the rest of her was, as ever, pale like she'd never seen the daylight before. Leliana sighed, wondering how it was that Zevran managed to turn golden brown in the same sun that was currently roasting her like the pheasant at a banquet.

Leliana dressed and went on deck to sit at her favorite spot, whistling a passage from _La Prima Donna, _considering her wayward friends, Lena Tabris and Zevran Arainai.

You don't travel with people for nearly a year without getting to know them quite well. One of Zevran's favorite topics of conversation was the land of his birth, and whenever he spoke of it genuine sadness would creep into his voice. He never expected to see Antiva again. So whatever it was that had drawn him back was doubtless rather important and unexpected.

She couldn't help but be pleased that Lena had accompanied him, and not only because she looked forward to seeing the woman that had become her closest friend again. Alistair and Leliana had argued incessantly about her--and her interest in the assassin--all the way across Ferelden and back again. Leliana considered herself an impeccable judge of character and knew that there was depth to Zevran that Alistair was unable or unwilling to see. Considering that he and Lena were still travelling together more than a year after the defeat of the Blight, it seemed her theory was correct.

"Is this spot taken?" A female voice said from above in heavily-accented Orlesian.

Startled, Leliana looked up. The owner of the voice was a rather small Antivan human. Her nationality was obvious from the black hair that fell almost to her waist, olive skin, high cheekbones. Eyes the color of coffee, framed with long lashes, full lips.

She smiled then, and abruptly Leliana forgot all of the four languages she was formerly fluent in.

"Ah. Of course. I'm sorry. Please sit." Leliana managed at last, finding Antivan.

The woman sat gracefully beside her, sweeping her long skirts underneath her. She reached a slender arm through the railing, catching a few drops of seawater in her hand. Unexpectedly, she laughed, turning to face her.

"Antivan! And you have such a pretty accent, my dear. My name is Arges. You are coming to visit my fair city, I gather?" Her voice was light, her speech sibilant.

Leliana, whose ability to speak coherently was a large part of her livelihood, found herself speechless yet again. She wondered if all Antivans were this aggressively charming—not to mention good-looking. She cleared her throat, trying to collect herself and instead noticing how very good Arges smelled.

"A pleasure to meet you, Arges. I'm Leliana." She said, meeting her eyes with considerable effort.

"_Leliana!_" She exclaimed, her very Orlais name strangely exotic on an Antivan tongue. "I knew you were Orlesian from your beautiful skin. Like fresh cream. You must find a hat to shield your face from the sun when we arrive. It's a little intense for our northern brothers and sisters."

"An excellent idea." Leliana said, surveying her freshly sunburned skin.

"Ah, but in the meantime, it is too lovely to stay below deck. And the common area is so cramped and unpleasant."

Leliana laughed nervously. "I wouldn't know, I'm afraid. I have my own room."

Arges cocked one black eyebrow. "How decadent!" She grinned. "Well, my dear, I must go find some breakfast. I hope I will see you later...Leliana."

Leliana's mind caught again on the sound of her name on this woman's tongue, and she found herself disappointed that she was retreating so quickly.

With one last look Arges stood and turned, moving back toward the entrance to below-deck. Leliana's eyes followed her swishing skirts and long sable hair, blown by the wind.

-

Torvesti Signi swept down the long cold hallways of the Enclave of the House of Crows, his wool cloak clutched around him.

The echoes of the empty Enclave were more chilling than anything: they were the sound of assassins flooding the city, spilling their blood into the narrow streets. Signi was a hard man, forged in the heat of many battles (both secret and overt), but the thought of the unchained Crows wreaking havoc all over Antiva city made his chest constrict. Many would die. Collateral damage was inevitable.

But that was were Zevran and his woman came in. That sneaky little bastard was unavoidably the best assassin working, and Lena Tabris had recently murdered a deity and installed her personal candidate for kingship in also had it on authority that the pair had not only killed the Arl of Denerim, but had embarked on a rather successful freelancing career in Orlais involving two corrupt officials and a Bishop with some very unpleasant skeletons in his closet.

Their efficiency was beyond question. He just hoped they were worth all the trouble he'd gone through to bring them here.

Once, when he was very young--only an apprentice--Torvesti had been sent to Dairsmuid, in Rivain. He was allegedly there to track a troublesome mage for the Circle, but truthfully spent more time in a rented room, on the edge of the cold sea. At dusk he would walk to a tavern on the docks and listen to the beautiful dark-haired women discuss the events of the day. Sometimes one of the men would play sad songs on his guitar and a woman would sing.

He still remembered her long slender neck, her throaty voice, the bangles on her wrists jangling as she moved with the tempo. His understanding of Rivain was far from complete but his mind could fill in the gaps in his understanding. She sung about a journey by sea, of being far away from home and finding yourself again. When the mage (only a child, really) was finally bleeding out in his arms, he thought he could hear the dark woman's song again. A journey by sea. A new city, a new life.

Many long years passed, and still he found himself thinking often of the little room by the cold ocean, of Rivain's graceful women.

He hoped he lived long enough to see them again.


	7. Two Antivans

_As a quick note: I'm sorry for my extended absence from both this story and my other project, "Shadows". It's been a very eventful 40 or so days, and not in a good way, due to some new health issues and a lack of insurance/money. Anyway, now that I no longer spend every other day profusely ill, hopefully I'll start making some progress again. Thanks for sticking by me, everybody, and as always, your comments encourage me to keep writing! _

_Also, I was wondering if anyone could give me some hints as to how to keep the document uploader from ruining my formatting? For some reason, the site won't allow me to use certain characters (like two dashes in a row) or put two spaces between sentences (?).  
_

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* * *

_

"My Lena." Zevran whispered, and her eyes snapped open.

One calloused finger pressed into her lips. Zevran's face was very close to hers. His breathing was shallow, coming in little pants through parted lips. His narrowed eyes were on the door to their room.

Lena and Zevran had been killing people together for more than two years now, and she needed no further instruction. She slipped off the bed and landed in a crouch, Duncan's sword and her _dar'misu_ already in her hands. She had thankfully taken to at least partially re-dressing before bed- a tunic and leggings would at least protect her modesty, if not her safety.

Zevran slid past her, his footsteps softer than a cat's even in hard-soled Orlesian boots. He put his ear close to the door then flattened himself against the wall. Their eyes met.

"Four." He mouthed, as the door fell off its hinges.

This time Lena moved first, launching herself at the first person through the door. She had just enough time to register the surprise on the big human's face before she attached herself to him, snarling. Zevran slid past her like a shadow, driving one slim dagger up and into the second attacker's ribs between the plates of his armor. It was a maneuver she remembered (though she suspected Alistair recalled with even more clarity) from the first time they'd met.

Distracted, Lena didn't see the fourth- the actual Crow of the group- until he was tearing her off of his dead friend. He (a blonde elf who could have been good looking if he wasn't trying his best to kill her) put a knee into her jaw and toppled her before Zevran hit him from the other side.

The Crow got one foot behind Zevran's as he was stepping toward him and they fell in a heap on top of her, smashing her between one thrashing assassin and one dead one.

Zevran swore in two languages as both their weapons flew. Lena got one arm free and impaled the Crow with her _dar'misu _as Zevran's fist came down for the second time. She slid out from underneath them as Zevran continued to hit his former associate and swear explosively.

At last he stood, a smear of blood across his heaving chest.

"Did he cut you?" He demanded.

"Please. A lousy two-bit assassin?" Lena gasped, letting her head fall against a section of the floor that was thankfully devoid of bodily fluids.

Zevran shook out his fist, wincing.

"Faces have gotten harder since I last punched someone." He said dryly, then froze. Another set of footsteps were traveling down the hallway toward them.

A booted foot appeared in the doorway, and Zevran had scooped up his dagger and almost killed the human before realization set it. He took a step backward.

"…Nivea?" He blurted.

It took a moment for her Lena to realize where she knew this human from. Long dark hair, neat goatee, swirling black tattoos peaking out from the collar of his shirt and his long sleeves…

…of course, there was one main difference from the last time they'd seen each other: this time, he had clothes on.

"Maker!" Nivea declared. "It is true! I knew it!" He cocked his head as he looked at the dead Crow on the ground. "Actually, I knew _him_. What was his name…?"

"Alaine Sirev." Zevran said helpfully.

The human snapped his fingers.

"Yes, that was it. Thank you. We see a lot of the Crows in my business, you understand."

"What in seven hells are you doing here?" Lena interrupted, nearly shrieking. Nivea swept in, pushing his cloak off of his shoulders and closing the door behind him.

"I'm here to help." He said with a little bow.

"We don't really need your services at present, Nivea. But we're flattered by the offer." Zevran said dryly, crossing his arms.

Nivea opened his mouth to retort, then his gaze sank. He cleared his throat.

"Does this often happen to you when you're killing people, Zevran?" He said, gesturing vaguely.

Zevran looked down at himself.

"Yes. And no one has ever complained before." He said indignantly.

"I suppose all that fighting would get the blood pumping. To all sorts of places, apparently." Nivea stroked his goatee thoughtfully, his eyes still hovering over Zevran's pants.

"We don't need your help! And how do you even know what we're doing?" Lena interjected, drawing the two men back-hopefully-to a slightly more pressing topic.

"When last we saw each other, I of course noticed that your man is a Crow. They have very distinctive tattoos, of course. And M'Lady spoke Ferel quite a bit better than Antivan. Between these things, the scars from teeth the size of daggers on your stomach, and your King's armor, I rather assumed you were the famous Ferelden Grey Warden and her Antivan assassin lover." Nivea said, one black eyebrow raised. "And whores gossip, of course."

Lena stared at him in blatant shock. Nivea sighed.

"I know what's happening to the Crows. And I know that you are tasked with killing quite a few of them. I want to help."

"Why?" She demanded.

"Don't look a gift whore in the mouth." He said blithely.

"…I have no idea what that is supposed to mean." Lena said at last.

"You will die. We can't protect you. The Crows are the most elite assassins in the Thedas." Zevran said, crossing to look out the window for an escape route and throwing a tunic on.

"I know. I trained with the Crows for years. I'm a very good archer and I'm twice your size."

"When did you get out?"

"At eighteen. I was with the Crows for fourteen years."

"How are you still among the living, if I may ask?" Zevran said, buckling his armor down.

Nivea pulled his hair back, craning his neck to bare his throat. He ran a finger over a thin scar that went from ear to ear. Lena found it difficult to believe that she hadn't noticed it in their last encounter. She had been rather drunk, however.

"An oversight on their part. Have I mentioned that I'm difficult to kill?"

Zevran snorted.

"A useful skill indeed. What say you, my dear?" He said, offering a hand to Lena and sliding out a second story window onto the roof of the level below.

Lena sighed, edging along the landing. She did have a habit of accumulating companions.

"Nivea! Come on. Try to keep up." She exclaimed, and the human followed them out the window and into the black, moonless night.

* * *

Leliana extinguished the lamp and lay down, sighing. When next she woke, she would be in Antiva City.

As a bard, Leliana had traveled extensively, but she'd never seen Antiva before. She'd met a lot of Antivans, however. They tended to be full of advice and anecdotes concerning the land of their birth. Useful advice like, "Don't make eye-contact with the Crows," and "Don't feed the stray dogs or rats," and "When someone in a house above yells 'Look out below!' with a chamberpot in their hands, it's best to not waste time actually looking."

Still, excitement was building. Travel was always an adventure, and she was of course looking forward to seeing Lena and Zevran again.

She listened to the surf hitting the hull of the ship rhythmically, the creak of the deck above, a few rats moving around in the space between the walls.

Sleep wouldn't come.

Leliana had never been particularly insomniac, but then again, until recently she'd spent her days slicing darkspawn to ribbons and falling into ravines and being chased by bears and assassins and bandits.

She was just recalling the last time she'd seen her former companions- Lena, still pale and weak, Zevran, his usual levity slightly forced- when someone rather skillfully picked her lock.

Leliana tensed under the bedclothes but didn't move. Her hand inched toward the dagger she kept with her even in sleep. Her hand found cold steel as quiet steps approached the pile of her clothing and her pack. Luckily, as an occasional pickpocket herself she had learned to also keep her coin purse on her- even in sleep.

Leliana worked the dagger free from its scabbard as the thief abandoned her things and approached her bed. A cold hand slid under the bedclothes.

She reacted, snatching a wrist and pulling hard, bringing her dagger up with the other hand. She found a throat with her blade and the thief froze.

They were perfectly still in the total blackness for a moment before a voice spoke.

"I'm sorry, Leliana dear. It was nothing personal." Arges said.


	8. To Learn of the Crow

_Thanks for your continued reading, _mi amoras_. Regrettably personal problems, three jobs, and my first novel are slowing my fanfiction production rate considerably. Do know that I haven't forgotten about these stories. As always, I value your input immensely. _

* * *

The Orleisian's expression didn't change. And she didn't speak. But she didn't move the blade away from Arges' throat, either.

"A thief. Really my dear, does anyone in Antiva have a _normal_ profession?" She said finally, blue eyes narrowing, full lips pursing. Oh, in another life, she could have thought of uses for those lips.

Arges sighed and ignored the question. It was probably rhetorical anyway.

"If you're going to use that blade, do so now. I hate to be kept waiting." She responded instead.

To her surprise, the dagger's sharp edge left her exposed throat. Arges cleared her throat.

"Thank you. As I've said, it's nothing personal. A personal friend of the King, with expensive new drake scale armor, traveling alone…you can see why I took an interest in you." Arges said, still frozen in a crouch over the Orleisian girl's bed.

Leliana sighed. Arges waited for her to speak, but she didn't. Nervousness made her fill the silence herself.

"…Not that you aren't perfectly sumptuous! If I didn't have debts to repay, I'm sure I'd be traipsing off to your room for something more enjoyable than to rifle through your belongings."

"Save your flattery. It's cheap." Leliana snapped finally.

Arges sighed, feeling her hands beginning to tingle and the blood drain out of her face. If Leliana didn't kill her on the spot, the captain would simply throw her overboard for stealing. And drowning had never been on her preferred list of ways to exit this mortal coil.

"Listen, Leliana: do me a favor and use that dagger. It's a far better end than I'll get elsewhere."

Leliana crossed the room and went to sit at the tiny desk, putting one ankle on her opposite knee. She drove the dagger into the desk where it stuck there by the point, humming.

"How old can you possibly be, Arges- if that is your name?" She said, suddenly sounding very weary.

Arges rolled her eyes upward, thinking.

"Eighteen, twenty. Somewhere around there."

"And already you wish to die?" Leliana said, looking genuinely upset. This woman was either the most compassionate individual in Thedas, or mentally deficient in some way. Arges couldn't think of a response, so she kept silent.

"I won't kill you." Leliana said finally. Arges opened her mouth to retort, but she continued.

"I have fifty sovereigns in my purse. I'll give you twice that if you help me. It may be a dangerous job, or it may be a sightseeing tour of Antiva City. I won't know until I arrive. But I could use a guide."

There was a beat of silence as Arges' mind reeled. Waves lapped against the hull of the ship, overhead a board creaked.

"…You want to pay me one-hundred Ferelden sovereigns, to show you around Antiva City. Instead of killing me." She said flatly.

"Essentially. Also, it would be helpful if you could use a sword."

"For one-hundred sovereigns, I can learn." Arges laughed, relief flooding her. Leliana was a compassionate soul. It would get her in trouble one day, Arges was certain. For her part, she would only ditch the woman as soon as they landed, instead of murdering her in her sleep. Arges also considered _herself_ compassionate, in her own way.

"And I warn you: As you mentioned earlier, I am a personal friend of Alistair I of Ferelden. I will write to him about you _extensively- _so if myself or my purse go missing…"

Arges' face blanched anew.

"I see." She said.

"Yes, I thought you might." Leliana said, unscrewing a pot of ink and setting to work.

* * *

Nivea followed dutifully behind Lena and Zevran. The elves threaded their way through winding cobbled streets, the assassin in the lead. Nivea didn't speak, and neither did they.

Though they were silent, Nivea (who was, after all, an expert at such things) could feel the intangible energy between them. They had the air of people who had endured much together, and had not emerged without scars. Indeed, the night they had spent together Nivea had reacted visibly to the huge mass of scars on Lena's torso, and it was Zevran who'd bristled and given him a black look.

Eventually he found himself standing in front of _La Magda _Cathedral while the dark-haired Lena picked the lock. Zevran stretched languidly and yawned.

"I hope you understand that you've volunteered to be woken every night by people who are trying to kill you." Zevran said dryly while Lena cursed quietly in Ferel at the stubborn lock.

"Please, Zevran." Nivea said. "I'm a whore. I live in a bordello. I haven't slept through the night in half-a-year."

"Point taken." The assassin said. The lock clicked loudly and the door creaked open.

"Aha!" Lena declared, cracking her knuckles. "Magic fingers!"

"You don't have to tell us, my dear." Zevran said, then motioned him forward and into the empty church.

* * *

Nivea spent a restless night tucked into the space underneath a huge pipe organ. Gazing up at the underside of the organist's wooden bench in darkness reminded him of sleeping at the "apartments" as a Crow initiate, staring up at the bunk above.

As such he had horrible dreams, or maybe just a horrible time reminiscing while half-asleep.

The unending threat of death was enough to drive all civility and decency from everyone who made it even a few years into Crow training. Those who made it into young adulthood were generally already practiced sociopaths. Nivea had never managed to shed his humanity properly, and he'd very nearly died for it.

Zevran (who had, of course, completed Crow training and was therefore utterly untrustworthy) appeared as Nivea was standing, yawning loudly.

He blinked at the elf for a moment, since he had, in fact, appeared through an open window, and they were bedded down in the choir loft, far above the city.

Zevran looked completely nonchalant about this feat, but he put a finger to his lips and pointed with his head toward the still-sleeping form of Lena, half-hidden by shadows.

The girl was equally puzzling. She was probably just into her twenties- far too young for all those scars- and even more standoffish and reserved than most elves. The only warmth he'd seen from her was when her eyes rested on the assassin.

Said assassin was waving him forward. Nivea tentatively approached the window, squinting into the cool air of dawn. Zevran slid out again and disappeared.

Nivea saw that a ledge ran along the worn stone wall, just wide enough to walk along and sit on, which Zevran was currently doing.

More properly, he was perched- one arm around a huge, grimacing gargoyle, his legs dangling. He was peering out over the city, utterly still. (It was something Nivea had learned to watch for in identifying Crows: they were without the fidgeting or other myriad nervous movements most people displayed. A Crow at rest was utterly still in the same way a wolf or a cat was-conserving all energy for the hunt, no extraneous movement whatsoever.)

"Sit with me, Nivea." Zevran said, still frozen in place.

Nivea exhaled slowly, then crawled out the window and onto the ledge. It had been years since he'd done anything like this. He slid along slowly, his back scraping against worn stone, until he came to sit, carefully, by the assassin's side.

Zevran turned and looked up at him, squinting. Nivea noticed not for the first time how strange his eyes were. Closer to gold than brown. He probably had Dalish blood.

"Good. Now tell me why you're really here." He said flatly.

Nivea narrowed his eyes, glaring down at the much smaller man.

"Is it not enough that I've pledged myself to your cause? Can you not allow me my secrets?" He said.

"Keep your secrets. Only tell me what drives you. If I'm to trust Lena's safety and my own to you, I must know." Zevran said quietly, his voice just slightly dangerous, iron wrapped in velvet. So long speaking Ferel had left him with a slight accent in his native tongue.

Nivea sighed, finally averting his eyes.

"Revenge. Unoriginal, I know. I want Giovanni Cavallo. And frankly, I'd like to get out of Antiva and out of my current profession. It's not a career with many prospects."

Zevran's head tilted in thought. His blonde hair moved slightly in the breeze.

"Cavallo…I don't know the name." He said.

Nivea shrugged.

"I didn't suppose you would. He's a year younger than myself. And as a recall, initiates were beneath the great Zevran's notice unless he was bedding them."

Zevran snorted, but didn't disagree.

"Good. Revenge, I can work with. Keep your eye on Lena. If we all survive this little…event, I'll deliver you this Cavallo on a platter. And buy you passage on a ship to anywhere you want to go."

"Didn't this Lena kill a high dragon almost single-handedly?" Nivea blurted. He was taken aback both by Zevran's generosity and the implication that Lena needed protection of any kind.

"Yes, but these are the Crows. No one can hope to fight them but those who were once counted amongst their ranks. Guard her with your life. If _you_ die I'll kill your Cavallo myself and needless to say your wish to escape Antiva will be fulfilled."

"Thank you." Nivea said, unexpectedly moved and only slightly disbelieving.

"Of course." Zevran responded, falling back into stillness.


	9. Of Ferelden and Fereldeners

**_Thanks to everyone who is still reading this little little guy. I love all of my stories deeply, but have been in a bit of a rut lately. And a bit distracted. In the year since my last update, I've gotten divorced, had two major surgeries (including cancer treatment!), totalled my car, switched careers, gone back to school, and met a new boy who is currently rocking my world. It's been a weird time. I've just started writing again after all the bad stuff, and it feels so good. And I'm so grateful to the people who have supported me and nagged me to write again (especially you, Rhiononon and TheBlackPages). _**

* * *

They had finished a late breakfast, at a sea-side tavern called, puzzlingly, "Mordecai's Faithful Watchdog". The inn itself was clearly past its prime, but the tables had been literally worn down from scrubbing and even the floors were clean. Though it was early in the day, the air smelled like fragrant burning tobacco and frying fish.

Lena sat on one side of him, and Zevran was half-reclining across from her, his legs kicked up and resting across her knees under the table. They had both taken to wearing all-concealing cloaks. Anywhere but Antiva, it would have made them more suspicious. Here, it was more conspicuous to _want_ to be noticed.

Zevran was rolling a coin over his calloused knuckles, again and again, back and forth in silence, until Nivea could stand it no more.

"What are we _doing_, man?" He said exasperatedly.

"We're watching, and listening." Zevran murmured smoothly. "You were once a Crow, do you remember nothing of reconnaissance?"

"I remember reconnaissance quite well," Nivea snapped, annoyed. "It's just that I've been staring at the bottom of my empty tankard for an hour, watching you fiddle with enough money to buy me another beer."

"Then summon a waitress and be still." Zevran said sharply, glaring at him from the shadows of his hood.

"Oh Maker..." Lena breathed wonderingly, interrupting them. Zevran's eyes flicked over to her, then followed her gaze toward the door.

"It's..." Lena gaped. "It is!" She stood, dumping Zevran's legs off of her lap. Only his impressive reflexes saved him from sliding out of the booth and onto the floor. He barely seemed to register this, however, so focused was he on the two women who had just entered the tavern.

One was human, very tall, and buxom. She was fair-skinned and red-headed, already burning a little in the intense sun of Antiva. Her companion was also human but not much larger than an elf, clearly a native Antivan. Black hair hung to her waist, and her face would have been pretty had she not been scowling so deeply.

The red-head's eyes wandered over the tavern, taking in the early morning crowd evenly but observantly. When she saw them she stopped and smiled broadly. It seemed to light the room.

Wordlessly she strode toward them, the darker girl trailing behind her.

Lena came out from behind the booth, and the two women stared at each other for a moment only, then embraced.

"Lena my darling. You look so well. Better than ever." The red-head said softly, finally releasing her and, he realized, weeping.

"And Zevran!" She laughed, and pulled the assassin in for a hug as well. Nivea noticed that Zevran was the perfect height to have his face directly nestled into a human woman's cleavage when embraced. No wonder he always had smile on his face.

"I told you I would take care of our Lena, did I not?" Zevran said, looking up at the woman, smirking.

"I never doubted you." She said solemnly, then seemed to notice Nivea for the first time. "Who is your friend?"

"Ah." Zevran said. "Allow me to present Nivea Alegro. Former Crow, current seeker of adventure. Nivea, this is Leliana, a deadly fighter who sings like an angel, and of course a stunning beauty, as you can see."

"Leliana, what are you doing here? How did you find us?" Lena said, breaking into the conversation.

Leliana's eyes flickered over him.

"How well do you trust your friend?" She murmered, looking back at Lena.

"Implicitly." Lena said curtly, and Nivea found his mouth falling open in suprise. Zevran shot him a look that seemed to say, _just_ _don't prove her wrong_.

"Alistair sent me. He's been hearing tales of some sort of rift in the Crows, and he knows that if the Crows fall, Antiva will be compromised." Leliana said.

"Without the Crows we'll be overrun in weeks." Zevran responded. "Rivain, the Qunari, even Fereldeners will be tripping over themselves to sack our cities and run off with our notoriously beautiful women." With this segue way he looked over at the smaller black-haired girl. She presented her hand and he brushed a kiss across her knuckles.

Leliana and Lena exchanged smirks.

"May I present Arges, my guide." Leliana said. Arges nodded to them but didn't speak, though she eyed Zevran suspiciously.

"I suggest we rent a room and discuss our options in private." He said, snapping his fingers in Nivea's general direction.

Nivea rolled his eyes, then turned to find the proprietor of the inn.

"Right away." He sighed.

"And some lunch for our weary travelers, please." Zevran's voice floated over the crowd to him.

"Of course, _Maestro_ Arainai." He grumbled to himself.

* * *

In a matter of hours, Zevran, Lena, and Leliana had hammered out a plan of rather startling complexity. Nivea dosed, stretched out on a narrow bed, chin in his hand. Arges sat ramrod straight by his side, hands in her lap.

Eventually, the sun disappeared and the candles were lit. Lena rolled up the parchment they'd been scribbling on and tucked it into her belt. Zevran stood and stretched, his spine curving like a cat's. His armor creaked and a few joints popped.

Leliana let out a little laugh, suddenly, putting her hand to her mouth.

"Do you remember when Zevran drunkenly stole that pirate's purse? At Redcliff? And we had to smuggle him out of the tavern in a sack?" She laughed again, this time less politely, and Lena joined her.

Zevran rounded on them, looking a bit sheepish. He pretended to inspect the leather of his gauntlets. "It wasn't my finest moment, I'll admit."

Nivea snorted.

"I'm a killer, not a thief!" Zevran said over his shoulder to the reclining man, which only made them all laugh harder.

Eventually Zevran sat at her side again. She squeezed his hand.

"Those were exciting days, were they not?" Leliana said at last, when she had regained her breath. The remark sobered Lena a little. Thinking of the past was always a little distressing. So many doubts nagged at her. She'd been forced, as the de facto leader of their little group, to make so many important decisions. She didn't exactly feel as though she'd been qualified for the task. And there were always people to miss.

"Did you speak to Alistair?" She asked.

"Oh yes." Leliana said, pulling her cloak around her. "He's well enough. A bit lonely, I think. I think he's still surprised about how things turned out, maybe nursing his pride, too."

Lena cracked her knuckles, leaning back in her chair.

She'd spared an assassin's life, then immediately and inexplicably (at least from poor Alistair's point of view) started bedding him. Later, he'd saved all their lives far underground, in the realm of the ancient dwarves. Later still, they'd liberated him from the grip of the Antivan Crows. Then, they all saved the world. It _was_ a bit surprising.

She had, after all, actually died in the process. The dragon's enormous teeth put holes through her big enough (or so Zevran had told her later) to put a fist through. But when he dumped a bottle of Wynne's magick into her wounds and pounded hard enough on her chest, her heart started beating again. Or so she'd been told.

Lena suspected that what came next was the biggest shock to Alistair. Zevran carried her unconscious form all the way down the steps of the battlement, across the ruined city, and back to what was about to become King Alistair I's castle. Then he became an utter tyrant on her behalf, permitting one short visit from the Circle Magi, then no other person or persons anywhere near her until her recovery was well underway. He gave Alistair a severe talking-to regarding "Ferelden's quaint but in-all-other-ways horrifying approach to the medical arts" and cared for her himself.

She glanced over at Zevran, who also seemed to be lost in thought. He looked different now than he had that first day, bleeding on the ground with her standing over him, wondering if it was in her best interests to let him live. Different from when she'd first awoke in Alistair's castle, confused, sick with pain.

His hair was longer now, usually in a Dalish plait. His face, always a little harsh, had become a little more weathered. He'd accumulated a few more tattoos, more scars.

Then he caught her eyes, and smiled, and everything was the same. Warmth flooded her. His honeyed eyes always seemed to be laughing when he looked at her. Always held joy. Every line of his face was so familiar now, and it was still the face she liked to see best.

Lena loved him in a fierce way that sometimes surprised even herself. And yet, she'd only told him once that she loved him, before they marched often to certain (or so she'd thought) death against the horde. They were both people of few words. Zevran was loquacious only when it came to his stories and his humor and his bragging. Of feelings, they both spoke little. But she would learn, Lena vowed.

If they both still drew breath when the Crows were restrained, she would tell him again.


End file.
